“You would have grown thin, Monsieur.”

“And mad!  For you would have been here in Quebec.  And I have kissed that letter a thousand times!”

“Is it possible?”

“Diane . . .”

“I am Diane no longer,” she interrupted.

“In God’s name, what shall I call you, then?” his despair maddening him.

“You may call me . . . a dream.  And I advise you to wake soon.”

The man in him came to his rescue.  He suddenly reached across the table and caught her wrist.  With his unengaged hand he caught up the ashes and let them flutter back to the table.

“A lie, a woman’s lie!  Is that why the ash is black?  Have I wronged you in any way?  Has my love been else than honest?  Who are you?” vehemently.

“I am play, Monsieur; pastime, frolic,” insolently.  “Was not that what you named me in the single hours?”

“Are you some prince’s light-o’-love?” roughly.

The blood of wrath spread over her cheeks.

“Your name?”

“I am not afraid of you, Monsieur; but you are twisting my arm cruelly.  Will you not let go?  Thank you!”

“You will not tell me who you are?”

“No.”

“Nor what your object was in playing with my heart?”

“Perhaps I had best tell you the truth.  Monsieur, it was a trap I set for you that night in Paris, when I came dressed as a musketeer.  My love of mischief was piqued.  I had heard so much about the fascinating Chevalier du Cevennes and his conquests.  There was Mademoiselle de Longueville, Mademoiselle de Fontrailles, the little Coislin, and I know not how many others.  And you walked over their hearts in such a cavalierly way, rumor had it, that I could not resist the temptation to see what manner of man you were.  You were only the usual lord of creation, a trite pattern.  You amused me, and I was curious to see how long you would remain constant.”

“Are you not also a trite pattern?”

“I constituted myself a kind of vengeance.  Mademoiselle Catharine expected you to establish her in the millinery.  Have you done so?”

The Chevalier fell back from the table.  This thrust utterly confused and bewildered him.  It was so groundless and unexpected.

“She is very plump, and her cheeks are like winter apples.  She had at one time been in my service, but I had reasons to discharge her.  I compliment you upon your taste.  After kissing my hands, these,” holding out those beautiful members of an exquisite anatomy, “you could go and kiss the cheeks of a serving-wench!  Monsieur, I come from a proud and noble race.  A man can not, after having kissed my hands, press his lips to the cheeks of a Catharine and return again to me.  I wrote that letter to lead you a dance such as you would not soon forget.  And see! you did not trouble yourself to start to find me.  And a Catharine!  Faugh!  Her hands are large and red, her eyes are bold; when she is thirty she will be fat and perhaps dispensing cheap wine in a low cabaret.  And you called me Rosalind between times and signed your verses and letters Orlando!  You quoted from Petrarch and said I was your Laura.  My faith! man is a curious animal.  I have been told that I am beautiful; and from me you turned to a Catharine!  I suspect she is lodged somewhere here in Quebec.”